


Baby, Won't You Stay Awhile?

by waywardrenegade



Series: See Where We Land [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Past Relationship(s), Rare Pairings, consensual unsafe sex, goalie love, goalies are bendy creatures, i suck at tags/titles/everything, okay so the hawks are only there in mentions but still, stadium series game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-15
Updated: 2014-04-15
Packaged: 2018-01-19 11:17:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1467541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardrenegade/pseuds/waywardrenegade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had been so easy to tumble repeatedly into each other’s beds during road trips, yet Corey couldn't have fathomed they’d ever do it again, let alone more than a decade later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baby, Won't You Stay Awhile?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kindofdanceit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kindofdanceit/gifts).



> This is entirely kindofdanceit's fault since we're both suckers for French-Canadian goaltenders and talked at length about it. Obviously Flower needed cheering up after the Stadium Series shitshow, so who better than his fellow Québécois? 
> 
> Minor hand waving at Véronique’s nationality (she’s just French, no Canadian) and the timeline because, in real life, Flower and Vero were together when he and Crow met. Here they start dating/get married (and eventually divorced) after he stops seeing Corey/goes to Pittsburgh. Furthermore, Sylvie and Corey were engaged but called it off.
> 
> Translations are at the end. Also, the title comes from The Mowgli's "Say It, Just Say It". As always, con crit is welcomed and encouraged. :))

The falling snow has been piling up on the ice faster than the crew can clear it away, making passing interesting, to say the least. The bone-chilling wind’s stinging Corey’s chapped skin as it whips around him, unrelentingly and merciless. It’s miserable at best, but if the 60,000+ people at Soldier Field can huddle together and literally weather the storm for the sake of the sport, Corey supposes it isn't his place to bitch.

Jonny’s been hyping them up for this game for weeks now; “Guys, it’s like a game of shinny, getting back to our roots. And Pittsburgh’s a great team to play in an outdoor game. We've got this,” he keeps saying like a mantra. The wistfulness creeping into his voice, unconcealed and raw, speaks of wanting to prove himself against Sid, which Corey can respect.

He’s had his doubts as to the “fun” of this game that the guys who’d played in the 2009 Winter Classic kept promising, especially after his pads and helmet had mysteriously disappeared, but Corey puts on his game face and defends his crease diligently.

When Sharpy scores in the first, Corey bites the inside of his lip so hard he draws blood. He knows what’s inevitably going through Flower’s head right now, the inner commentary of self-inflicted punishment, all too well.

Tazer makes it 2-0 in the second with a gorgeous backhand-forehand deke before slipping a backhanded shot through Flower’s legs, a shot Corey is sure as shit glad he didn't have to face. He’s not entirely certain he could have stopped it either, and it seems Jonny’s really and truly out for blood and redemption tonight.

After the 3rd Hawks goal, a beauty after a feathered pass from Kaner to Steeger, Corey doesn't think he imagines the downtrodden expression on Flower’s face, despite the distance between them and the mask sheltering most of it. Corey, having been under fire from Hawks fans since almost day one, can relate. He tries, to no avail, to catch Flower’s eye and give him a reassuring nod.

Early in the third, Seabs fucks up, full on slamming the puck past Corey and into the net. Corey isn't feeling particularly gracious when he spits out an angry, “What the absolute fuck, Biscuit?” even though Brent’s face says he’s already berating himself.

Corey swears he can hear a familiar, low chuckle like a distant undercurrent to the raucous noise surrounding him, but he shakes it off because that’s impossible.

Eventually, Bicks and Tazer rally twice more, and they win cleanly by a score of 5-1. The handshake line isn't as uncomfortable as one might think given the outcome, and when Corey gets to Flower, he does the usual “handshake, pat on the back, bro hug” routine but whispers “You in?” against Marc’s shoulder. He guesses the rest of the guys will shrug it off as goalies being weird but that Marc will know exactly what he’s offering.

Marc doesn't reply immediately, or even with words, but the sharp pat on the ass he gives Corey with his stick is answer enough.

It makes Corey furious when he sees the Pens slump off to the visitor’s locker room and some shitty fans pelt them with snowballs they must have been stockpiling. To him, there’s honestly nothing more disrespectful than kicking someone, or in this case, a team, when they’re down. The red-hot flare of anger in the pit of his stomach is uncontrollable, as is the urge to tell them to stop being classless fucks. Knowing how Q and Stan would take that though, he keeps himself in check.

In the locker room, the boys are their typical post-win rowdy selves, all whooping laughter and praise for each other. Jonny looks relaxed and happy, appearing younger than Corey’s seen him in a long while, which must be infectious because Corey finds he can’t stop smiling.

Shawzy suggests they go out for drinks, maybe invite some of the Pens, but Corey miraculously manages to beg off with the excuse of wanting nothing more than to relax in his bed with some hot chocolate. No one argues with him since he’d basically been a wall tonight.

As he’s leaving, Tazer oh so helpfully reminds him to “use dark chocolate, Stevia not sugar, and none of those little fucking marshmallows you’re so fond of”. Corey gives him a one finger salute as he walks out.

He’s not really surprised to find Marc leaning against the passenger side door of his car, even though he shouldn't have even known where Corey had parked, but Marc’s charming and can get answers without much effort. It’s always been a talent of his.

“Hé, quoi d’neuf?” Marc mumbles, shifting his weight back and forth like he’s been standing out there for a while and isn't quite sure about it.

“Come on, get in,” Corey says in lieu of a greeting or an answer to the question, pressing the unlock button with shaky hands. Marc makes a comment, probably a chirp, but the cheerful beep of Corey’s car drowns him out.

As soon as he’s tossed their gear bags in the trunk, Corey gets in and cranks the heat and seat warmers on full blast, fearing that the chill is so deeply embedded in their bones they may never be warm again.

Marc looks like he wants to say something, but he settles on sliding his hand across the leather until it brushes against Corey’s instead. He’s got tiny snowflakes clinging to his lashes, and his hair’s still wet from his post-game shower. It’s all Corey can do to pull his eyes away reluctantly and back his car out of the lot.

“Did you tell them where you were going?” he asks Marc as they’re stopped at a light a few blocks from his condo. Pausing enough to make Corey a bit anxious, Marc reassures him, “Yeah, Sid knows where I am” with a half-smile. He pulls a piece of bubble gum from seemingly out of nowhere and blows a bubble obnoxiously close to Corey’s face like the annoying shit he is.

“Can we go to McDonald’s, get some nuggets, and forget about tonight? You have beer, yes?” Marc questions in between popping his gum loudly and humming along to the Ke$ha song he’d made Corey stop on.

Corey laughs, fairly certain that neither of their diet plans allow for fast food but not really caring either. “Yeah, yeah we can,” he grins at Marc, illuminated by streetlights and neon signs, completely unabashed each time Marc catches him staring.

They end up back at Corey’s with 40 chicken nuggets, a large fry, and a six pack of Molson split unequally between them because Marc’s a fat ass in an athlete’s body. The 80 inch plasma is on NHL Network, but neither is watching highlights from the game because they’re a little preoccupied with trying to kiss each other senseless.

It’s been a long time since they've done this; Corey thinks it was around 2003, their last season together in the QMJHL. The easy familiarity isn't as fleeting as he might have imagined.

When it had all started, back in September 2001, Moncton had just lost 5-8 to Cape Breton, after having been defeated 4-6 the game prior. Corey was pissed at himself, at his team, and something about those bottled up emotions had finally done away with all pretenses. 

He’d followed Marc out of the rink, crowded him up against the brick, and pressed their lips together. Instead of hitting him like Corey had anticipated, Marc had melted into the kiss and breathlessly suggested they go somewhere else.

It had been so easy to tumble repeatedly into each other’s beds during road trips, yet Corey couldn't have fathomed they’d ever do it again, let alone more than a decade later. This whole night is a bit surreal, but Corey’s all for taking what he’s given and running with it.

The noises Marc’s making, breathy little moans he’d forever deny, say Corey could probably have whatever he wanted from him right now. However, when all’s said and done, what Corey really wants is to fall onto the king sized TempurPedic in the master bedroom and sleep for ages. A little unsure on his feet due to the booze and head rush from kissing Marc, he tugs Marc along by the hand to his room.

Somehow, Marc manages to unbutton Corey’s shirt when it becomes apparent he can’t navigate the buttons himself. He even has the courtesy to drape both the shirt and suit jacket over the chair in the corner so Corey won’t regret balling them up in a corner in the morning. Marc then slowly strips off his own clothes, dark eyes never leaving Corey’s, as he lays them carefully atop the pile. Marc’s left standing in the middle of Corey’s bedroom wearing nothing more than a pair of black boxer briefs and a smirk, and Corey feels like maybe he should say something.

As he undoes his belt and steps out of the slacks pooled around his ankles, he says quietly, “I’m glad you’re here, Marc. It’s been a while, but I never stopped caring about you. I feel like it’s important you know that.”

“T’as tu fini d’parler?,” is Marc’s reply before he’s once again pushing into Corey’s space and using his wiry strength to topple them onto the bed together, limbs and tongues intertwined. It should probably be more refined than when they were nearly eighteen and couldn't stop touching each other, but it’s not.

Corey still remembers that Marc likes to be held down, pinned under the 20 or so pounds Corey’s always had on him, so he straddles Marc’s thighs and holds his skinny wrists in one hand.

“You’re still weak for this, aren't you?” he asks, words ghosting across Marc’s lips in a seductive whisper. Corey shifts his hips infinitesimally and feels Marc’s erection pressed into the curve of his pelvis.

“Fuck you, fuckface,” Marc laughs as he traces the tip of his tongue along Corey’s jugular, pausing to nip gently every few centimeters. He keeps it up until he gets to the juncture of Corey’s jaw, just underneath his ear, where he places a chaste kiss that makes Corey shudder.

As retribution for Marc’s insult, Corey wedges his thigh between Marc’s and rocks forward excruciatingly slow. “You can. You know, if you want to,” he tells Marc sincerely. He looked at both of their schedules and knows neither of them play again until Tuesday, and it’s only Saturday night, still plenty of recovery time for them both.

Marc looks at him consideringly, expression clearly saying he thinks Corey’s just fucking with him and he can’t possibly be serious. Corey nuzzles his face against the side of Marc’s neck as he says huskily, “I’m not kidding. I’d like for you to fuck me, Marc."

Marc’s breath stutters a bit before he inhales as deeply as he can given Corey’s weight holding him down, and on the exhale he manages, “I want that too, yeah. Fuck.”

From there, it’s a battle of how quickly they can get naked versus wanting to touch each other so badly that they end up taking far longer than strictly necessary to remove their underwear. It’s really not sexy, the whole “hopping from foot to foot losing the underpants” dance, but by the time they’re done, Marc’s eyes are roaming Corey’s body hungrily, and Corey’s grin has turned slightly wolfy.

“How you want it?” Marc murmurs as he steps up behind Corey, resting his chin on Corey’s shoulder, as his arms snake around his torso. Corey’s never been so grateful for Marc’s lankiness, and as Marc’s plastered to his back, breathing synced up perfectly, he feels a reassurance he hadn't even known he was missing in his life.

Corey knows Marc’s got him, that he always has, so he lets his weight sag back against Marc’s body as he drags his fingers through Corey’s overlong hair affectionately.

“Slow. It’s been a long time. Want to see your face, kiss your lips, lose myself in you all over again,” he answers honestly, lulled into a pliant state by Marc’s dizzying kisses. Marc smiles at that; Corey feels it against his hair, rather than sees it.

“I’ll take care of you, Corey. Come on,” says Marc quietly as he settles Corey onto the bed before climbing up next to him. His fingers splay over Corey’s ribs, tracing the bone of each one reverently, before he rakes his blunt nails down Corey’s chest. He stops before he gets much past the dark happy trail leading to his erection, flushed and hard.

“I’m good, promise. Please just do it, please,” Corey doesn't quite beg, but it’s a close thing. He’s not going to argue, so Marc pushes Corey’s legs up until he can hook them over Marc’s bony shoulders that apparently haven’t gained lean muscle like the rest of him. Corey’s heels rest just below Marc’s shoulder blades, so like the impatient shit he can be sometimes, he digs them into the flesh there and urges Marc forward.

Apparently Marc figures he’s teased enough, because he tips forward and catches Corey’s bottom lip between his teeth, tugging a bit, before he asks softly, “You have stuff?” Which, shit no. Corey hasn't done this with anyone since Marc, so he’s not prepared.

Sheepishly, at least as sheepish as he can be with Marc’s dick pressed into his abs, he shakes his head disappointedly. He knows his face is red with embarrassment, can feel it growing hot. Marc just strokes the back of his hand down Corey’s cheek and says simply, “I got you.”

He rolls off Corey nimbly, all goaltender grace and litheness, and roots around in his gear bag for a minute before coming back to the bed with a small bottle of lube and a strip of condoms. Corey wants to make a smartass comment about Marc’s pseudo boy scout preparedness, but he knows that he’d probably just draw this out to spite him and that would benefit exactly no one. However, he does tell him he trusts him and doesn't want the condom.

Marc doesn't say anything, doesn't have to, as he once again pushes Corey’s knees up and pours a little lube in his palm. He cups his hand and brings it to his mouth, warming it with his breath, before he spreads it on his thin fingers and experimentally presses the tip of his index finger against Corey’s entrance. The resulting hiss from Corey is involuntary, not quite protest, but Marc’s stills anyway and raises a questioning eyebrow.

“I haven’t, uh, you know, since you. Uh, yeah,” he tells Marc, fingers twisting the sheets around him nervously, suddenly afraid Marc’s going to back out and it’ll be over.

“Corey, relax. Take a deep breath, yeah?” Marc reassures, and as Corey exhales gradually, he slips a finger inside, gives him a minute to adapt, and then slowly pulls it back out. Corey doesn't object, so Marc continues stretching him open, one digit at a time.

When Marc’s working the fourth one in, Corey huffs exasperatedly and kicks his heels into Marc’s back again, “Now, please. I can’t wait anymore.” If it were anyone other than Marc, Corey would probably find it in himself to be at least a little ashamed with how easy he is, but it _is_ Marc, and Corey’s not in the slightest.

Marc’s eyes slip shut for a moment while he lines himself up with Corey’s entrance, and as he pushes in as carefully as he can, he meets Corey’s dark gaze. He stays still, giving Corey time to adjust, but he recaptures Corey’s lips and murmurs words of praise into the kiss. By the time his lips have begun to tingle, he guesses Corey’s as ready as he’ll ever be, so he pulls out nearly all the way before shoving back in roughly.

Corey’s not sure Marc realizes it yet, but this is as much for Marc’s benefit as it is for his. After the brutality of giving up 5 goals and more than likely being singlehandedly blamed for the loss by every media outlet in Pittsburgh, Marc needs to release some of the pent up frustration radiating off him in waves. Corey’s more than content to let Marc’s use him if it means seeing him smile again.

Their moans and gasps mingle as Marc continues to thrust, hard and fast, Corey letting him work out his inner turmoil in the best way he knows how. It’s not long before Marc changes the angle just enough that he hits Corey’s prostate, leaving him literally seeing stars; Marc knows exactly what he’s done because he his answering smirk is filthy, as is the “I told you I’d take care of you, mon amour” he leaves on Corey’s lips.

Corey doesn't think that there’s more to the term of endearment Marc chose, just the headiness of the moment and the impending orgasm clouding his mind, so he bites his way into Marc’s mouth and utters, “Tu es à moi.”

Marc freezes, eyes wide and a bit wild. He looks positively spooked, and Corey regrets his words immediately, quickly understanding that maybe there are just some things you shouldn't say when you’re hooking up with your boyfriend from back in the day.

“What did you say?” Marc asks, deceptively quiet and calm. His arms are trembling with effort of keeping himself braced above Corey, still buried deep inside him.

Corey shakes his head and looks away, doesn't want to go there when they could both finish and forget he opened his stupid mouth in the first place. But Marc’s not taking no for an answer apparently because he grabs Corey’s chin with two fingers and forces him to meet his eyes. Corey’s suitably defiant for a moment before relenting and saying under his breath, “Tu es à moi.”

“Je suis à toi,” Marc says seriously, without more than a second’s pause, gaze intense and focused as he watches Corey’s face for any sign of what he’s thinking. Corey can only pull him down and kiss him sloppily in reply, so Marc resumes and a few short thrusts later, he’s coming.

Not one to leave him hanging, Marc pulls out slowly, still causing Corey to wince slightly, before he grabs Corey’s hand, licks a stripe across the palm, and tells him to get himself off while he spews dirty French and watches intently.

It’s about when Marc’s telling him how much he missed being inside him and how no one’s ever made him feel like Corey does, no matter how cliche it sounds, that Corey comes and streaks his belly and hand with white.

Marc pulls a few Kleenex from the box on the nightstand and wipes him off gently. Because he’s Marc though, he swipes a finger through the mess he left on Corey’s ass and brings it to his own mouth to lick off while Corey’s left whimpering at the sight.

They doze off together after Marc tells Corey he’s got another day in Chicago with a smile, their legs tangled and Corey’s head pillowed on Marc’s chest. Marc’s arm curls around Corey possessively, silently telling him everything’s going to be okay between them when morning rolls around.

Corey wakes as the sun is playing peekaboo with the moon, splashing the walls with bright shades of yellows and oranges since he’d forgotten to pull the curtains closed. Marc is propped up on an elbow looking down at him fondly, edges of his eyes crinkled, and his smile comes easily. He looks content and settled in a way he hadn't when they’d met up for lunch before the game.

“Pretty nice morning, eh?” Marc asks grinning as he attempts in vain to flatten the crazy spikes of hair on Corey’s head. He’s all loose limbs and sleep-warm, which is Corey’s second favorite only to feisty Flower who swears at his teammates, refs, and the other team alike.

Corey pulls Marc closer to his side, tucking his head against Marc’s arm, and says, “It really is. We should have done this before.” And rather than ducking his head and avoiding answering, Marc looks at Corey and simply says, “Yeah, we should have, but I was too caught up with Vero until I realized she wasn't the dark-haired, dark-eyed, French-Canadian I was in love with.” He smiles again then amends, “Am in love with.”

Because he doesn't really know how to reply, Corey brings Marc’s face to his and kisses him until they’re both out of breath and dizzy from it. 

“I never stopped caring, Marc. I just didn't think we had a chance. You left, and I was still trying to make it,” he admits hesitantly.

“J’voulais pas te dire aurevoir,” Marc says, lapsing into French again because as he’s told Corey before, sometimes it’s just easier for him to find the words he wants in French.

Corey’s grinning so widely that he’s sure he looks insane as he tells Marc, “You don’t have to this time. I’m not giving you up again.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Translations for Flower's (and Crow's one line) cheesy ass French: 
> 
> Hé, quoi d’neuf? = Hey, what’s up?  
> T’as tu fini d’parler? = Are you done talking?  
> Mon amour = my love  
> Tu es à moi. = You're mine.  
> Je suis à toi. = I’m yours.  
> J’voulais pas te dire aurevoir. = I didn’t want to say goodbye.


End file.
